Fractions

   'The power of love'. Have truer words ever been written or sung?

   Who wouldn't, yes, couldn't agree? Inspiration for too many breathtaking love songs, starting point for about each and every single piece of literature or art ever crafted by humanity. Groundwork for human existence, interaction, evolution.

  Too much pathos? Too exaggerated? Give it a second thought.

  Wars have been provoked by love. Empires obliterated for it. Look closely, and its evident ambiguity can be found among the seemingly pleasant notion we attribute to this state of the mind that forces its way into every fiber of the human soul with either good or malicious intentions. A less metaphorical Fall of Men. And no matter what, we fall hard. Take a bite, taste the sweetness, embrace the unspoiled bliss.

  Mmmmhhhh.

  Wait just a tidbit too long and foulness takes over, clasping the rotten odor of decay, covering the appealing splendor of seduction. Refuse to partake of the temptation and regret missing out for the rest of your life.

  Straight on, Tennyson. 'Tis better to have loved and lost...

  You know the deal.

  The lost loves. A myriad of possibilities. Lovers, sure. Loved ones. Worse. Hopes. Dreams. Life itself? Devastating.

  Another death, another progressive, incurable illness, another life-crucial impossibility, another, another, another. It adds up.

  And that's it.

  The flip-side of the coin.

  Love.

  It's a game-changer. THE game-changer. Stop lying to yourself it doesn't affect you that much, doesn't change you, doesn't rip your heart apart each and every single time. Doesn't disintegrate that artificial personality made up of social adaptation and sincere inner needs into a cyclone of millions of microscopically small components helplessly floating around in the vacuum of your love-tormented mind.

  It fucking DOES.

  If you're lucky you pull yourself through it. A few setbacks included, give or take. Lick your wounds, mend those scars. Cover them up, maybe hide them beneath the physical ones. We all carry them anyway.

  If not...

  If not you screw up. Badly. Drinks. Cigarettes. Add the occasional stupid decision that seems so appealing in the now but lets you sink to the bottom of a gloomy sea in the then, another dark passenger haunting those last remaining sparks of sanity, mingling with the shadows already there, taking your breath, a noose around the neck tightening by the minute, swallowing what's left.

  Don't ask.

  You hang around in bars and clubs.

  Get high on music until the point you are afraid you might collapse because of the sheer ecstasy of it. Pushing yourself further by the minute until you finally fall for it with all your might, fading out your wretched feelings. A cloud of three-four times to dive head first into, unafraid of shallow waters, Les Paul siren songs that fill your mind with the ease of hummingbirds, a constant drumming heartbeat that sets the irregular pace for emotional survival.

  Temporary palliation.

  You exhaust yourself. To the point where food and sleep become a mere distant memory.

  You outright open up to complete strangers to get it all of your chest because you can't stand hurting the ones you love anymore. The sad faces, the sympathetic words, the well-meaning. They care before they despair... nothing but drops in the ocean as they know as well as you do.

  You change. Withdraw. Pretend. Act.

  Afraid of being recognized as the weird, hurting, fading likeness of your former self that you have turned into. And you excel.

  Darkness has always been comforting. The darkest darkness, the one you only find in small town suburbia, far from fluorescent streetlights or multistory apartment buildings that try to suck your tormented soul straight from your heart. How strange.

  Right on the dam overshadowing the river, caught between some bushes and the occasional oak tree. Just a stone's throw from your home yet far enough to forget its sheer existence. Here you can dive in, blend in, feel its protective coating draped around your shoulders. The beauty of a pitch black night. As appealing as it was at the age of 10. Now offering more than the mind boggling fascination and awe you felt as a kid when you snuck out of the house in the middle of the night. Shelter. Peace. Calming you down.

  Breathe out.

  Let your thoughts wander.

  Forget.

  And nights become days.

  You can feel it slipping from your grip. 'It' being it all. Frosted glass panes wherever your gaze trails. You're going blind. Losing touch.

  Desperately waiting for a light at the end of the tunnel.

  Till then...

  I'm empty and aching and I do know why.

Off and Away

  The perks of traveling solo.

  Forgotten and absorbed into the back of my mind for the last nine years, which seem to have passed in the blink of an eye. And they did, as complete contentment has this ominous tendency to blur perception in more ways than imaginable.

  The journey is the destination.

  I zen out at airports the moment I get there. Especially being on my own. No cellphone or some kind of portable stereo needed. I observe. Blocking out the buzzing noises of those who perceive boarding a plane as a mere way of getting from A to B, a necessary obstacle lying between them and their well deserved one week summer vacation in an all-inclusive beach resort on the Balearic islands.

  How pathetic.

  For me it's my first personal oasis, which seems to drive those in a hurry, whose seats have been overbooked, flights canceled or passports misplaced, crazy, or at least suspicious. You win if you're on your own, relaxed, and well prepared. Venturing on a three-leg flight to save up some money? Sure. A two-hour delay on the first leg? Great, less time to kill in Heathrow, which despite the not so recently added Terminal 5 is still a pain to be at. An overnight layover? You may not be a careless youngster anymore but then you're not too old for that either, and sleep is overrated anyway while crossing one time zone after the other. Plus you can't possibly get used to the exaggerated use of A/C early enough. So you simply stoicly deal with every obstacle bestowed upon you, one by one – it all being part of this one ongoing experience called travel.

  Each journey starts with that single insignificant step out of the door, the moment one breaks the cycle of daily routine by abandoning worn-out paths and striving for the unknown. Sounds too dramatic? Engraved in a marble plate placed at the wall of a narrow brick building I discovered Calvino's wisdom: 'Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign unpossessed places.'

  Not exactly the way Campbell or Vogler defined it, but still some kind of hero's journey blueprint.

  Call me old fashioned; I still believe in experiencing, yes, feeling a place by walking its streets without looking every damn second on a phone or map, but instead heading down into the madness of being comfortably lost all on your own in an unknown environment. To be reset. It's then you find not only the time, but most importantly the inner peace and serenity to reflect on yourself. To get a break from the rush of our daily lives.

  Doing so I spent more than two hours on a bright Saturday morning walking the winding paths of the Allegheny Cemetery, stopping at a certain mausoleum or sculpture now and then while startling an unsuspecting groundhog looking for food between the countless gravestones neatly arranged next to each other. The sunshine on my face, a soft breeze sweeping up the sloping hills lined with oak trees, casting some welcome cool-down shades in the blazing heat around noon. I kept on walking lost in thoughts until the dust in my throat reminded me to turn my back on the dead and return to the likes of me. I felt complete.

  You don't do this stuff unless you travel alone. There is no one there to interrupt your thoughts, distract your perception – you just open up your eyes and see. See what's there. Unfiltered. Your opinion. Your impressions. Taking in the little things you might otherwise miss.

  During a single week abroad I walked endless hours and way more kilometers than I would have in an entire month back home. Had more inspiring conversations with complete strangers than I could have wished for. The ones you thirst for. The ones you never fully engage into while being with someone else. Being more approachable, more open to new experiences. Being more... you.

And so it happened that I met Sergey, a local photographer, who not only recommended a couple of great, not too well known locations to shoot at to me, but also retold me the story of his life within forty minutes on a packed sidewalk in the middle of the Strip. I philosophized about the art of beer brewing, acted as a professional photographer for a couple that celebrated their engagement on Mt. Washington, and ended up talking about arts, traveling and God and the world for more than an hour to a local artist named Bob whose work has become a local landmark.

  To name a few.

  Like a wolf smells its prey across a distance of two kilometers, single travelers sense each other, got an eye for those on their own as well. Eager to make connections, to communicate, connect, to escape the restrictions of your inner mind, something you eventually aimed for in the first place. I didn't expect to solve some of societies recent problems by the second round of beer in the middle of the night on a plane between America and Europe while talking for five hours straight to a well known ukrainian pianist who happened to be seated next to me.

  That never happens to you. Unless you're on your own.

  The best part about traveling solo though?

  Coming back home to your significant other, being hugged and kissed and told how much you were missed. The inner certainty that every spatial separation brings you closer together, even after nine years... at least for a while.

Eastbound

167,8 km of wired fence was all it took. One huge barrier erected within days to divide first only a city, then a country and finally a continent for more than 28 years. Add another 30 years (realistically maybe 50, but I'd rather like to sound like an optimist than a realist) to get that spatial separation between East and West out of people's heads. Ironically – no – sadly, the aftermath of every war, cold or not, always outnumbers the immediate pain it caused in the first place. Or so it seems.

   So while a wall can be physically torn down, maybe even vaporized, its mental self still ghostly lingers around for a while. Walking the streets of Berlin you won't find much left of what originally used to be The Wall. There aren't plaques on every other piece of concrete retelling it's history but if you know your way around, retracing the geographical layout of that infamous barrier between what people provocatively called The Free West and everything beyond the equally sensational named Anti-Fascist Protection Rampart in your head, you don't need them anyway. The soil, or concrete, or bowldering beneath your feet soaked with history. Listening closely you may sense the tears people shed, the lives they lost there, the pain and sorrow they felt. The perversity of human capabilities. 

  “Niemand hat die Absicht eine Mauer zu bauen.”

   Driving down the A2 to Berlin, right after crossing the border between Lower Saxony and Saxony-Anhalt, you pass Helmstedt-Marienborn. The gently sloping hillside forest finally opens up, turning into a flat plain scenery filled with green pastures and neverending undulant wheat fields, roofed by a deep blue sky as far as the eye can see. Several hordes of white lances divide the rural idyll, seemingly misplaced. Another wind park. One turbine next to the other, as you can find them all over Northern Germany today. 2014. 1989. Time.... ah. What's time after all? An indefiniteness applied to a code of units and numbers the human mind conjured up in a desperate attempt to gain more of it by giving it a meaning, controlling it. Like it's constituted in our nature to break everything down to the core, regardless of the consequences. Without doubt one of the most fundamental inventions ever made. Whether it's a curse or blessing I dare not say. Constantly ticking, and while typing these words I catch myself thinking that those 25 years gone by since the Wall came down represent by a good chance a third of my lifetime, give or take. Mere seconds in the history of time. And it seemed just like yesterday...

   Taking the exit from the Autobahn you pass by an utopian looking gas station that appears as misplaced there as the wind turbines before entering Marienborn, the former border post that has been a historic pilgrimage center for the last 18 years. A relict of days gone by amidst the so called 'flourishing landscapes' Helmut Kohl promised in 1990. Bullshit. The grass is always, always greener on the other side. It was for at least ten more years, probably more. It still is in people's heads.

  I never visited the site, never stopped, got out of the car and walked around the abandoned buildings. I drive by on a regular basis, four, five times a year, but whenever I set my mind to get off that exit something inside takes a hold of me, frightened, scared, begging me to keep on driving – and I do. We know each other. Got a history.

   According to my Dad it was in the early days of November '87, nearly two years from the day before the Wall came down. I was 4½, not knowing this would be my last trip to the GDR, but who could have foreseen the extreme turns history would take? In my memory the East, as I used to call it with childlike innocence, consisted of nothing but a kaleidoscope of shades of grey, ranging from the light grey of the street lamp posts to the dark grey concrete every building and street seemed to be made of. Picture the Men in Grey from Michael Ende's Momo, soulless, lifeless, blending into one another, only once in a while interrupted by an off-white Trabbi passing by. Like a movie from the early days, everything in it is born between black and white.

  Those early childhood memories are rare, loose fragments you need to piece together to get the whole picture, like polaroid pictures, stills from days gone by, eventually like déjà-vus made up of stories retold by your parents mixed with your own impressions and those from the media. This one, I do remember too well.

  The sun had long been set when we finally pulled up to the checkpoint. It was a dark night, the moonlight being blocked by a thick cloud cover so typical for the dreary month of November. It fit the atmosphere at the crossing. Countless floodlights casting long shadows added up to the eerie mood, a harsh contrast between the utter dark Autobahn we just left and the blazing bright border post we now entered. There was hardly any other car there, so Dad drove straight up to the guardhouse to show our passports, exchange some money, and be gone. The border officials must have been bored that night. Or in dire need of some self-affirmation. I couldn't tell. Wouldn't judge. I didn't walk in their shoes. But the next hour turned out to be an unnecessary harassment you find too often in societies ruled by fear and force. With great power comes great responsibility...

  Three grey uniformed men lead my father into an adjacent office we couldn't get a glimpse into before the door fell shut and stayed shut for another 30 minutes. While so far the procedure didn't catch my attention, after all I was used to it, I finally put down my comic book, climbed between the front seats and looked intensely at my Mom, who tried to act like her calm self for my and her own sake, but I could sense her nervousness and anxiety. Her eyes revealed it. Minutes went by, minutes that seemed like hours. We didn't know about the inquiry Dad had to endure inside, about the extensive search of our luggage for illegal goods we might try to smuggle.

  When they finally left the office after more than half an hour the worst was yet to come. The raid of the entire car. I silently started crying when they took away my Donald Duck comic. 'You mustn't bring capitalistic propaganda literature to our country.' I didn't dare screaming. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the bright floodlights to a dazzling white mass. The powerlessness of childhood was devastating. The powerlessness my parents must have felt I cannot imagine.

  Finally they let us go. The dark of the night welcomed us, wrapping itself around our car, soothing the fears and pains we just experienced until we finally reached our destination. I remember how that night Dad swore to himself to never set foot to the GDR again. We never would. Then 11/9/89 came around. And with it ecstatic telephone calls. Tears. Laughter. Plans to meet up with our friends after two long years of absence. I wasn't sent to bed that night, I fell asleep by myself on the couch, confused but realizing that I, as much as you can at that age, just witnessed something important, something truly meaningful. But while the actual wall is gone, existing only in our heads, its aftereffects never ceased to exist. 

  For me, it's that night in '87. The fear I felt back then is still inside me. Still haunts me, 27 years later.

  Every time I pass Marienborn.

  Taking down that Wall didn't erase our spatial separation immediately. Neither the varying inner attitudes between East and West. It does take time. To heal up as one nation. What else could you be longing for while roaming the streets of Berlin, where no one had the intention to build a wall 53 years ago...

Heaven knows I'm miserable now

I wrote for six hours straight, a perfect flow, according to Csikszentmihalyi (who's pronounced Tschik-cent-me-hai btw – happy to be at your service), distracted only by adding footnotes, inserting quotes and another desperate attempt to find more than one sophisticated synonym for 'ambivalent', which has been garbaging the pages of my thesis like pigeons shit the streets.

Exhausting myself to the point I couldn't go on for one more minute. Drained of words, thoughts, energy.

But then, suddenly, out of thin air, Oscar Wao came along, took me by the hand, begged me on his chubby knees to follow him...

... and I caved in.

An hour went by, and another, and when I turned that last page, read the last paragraph, spoke the final written words in my head, one of the last golden rays of the late evening sun shone on that half empty page, lighting it up, greeting me with a sudden warmth, a welcoming enlightenment, and it was then that I tasted the salt on my lips for the first time, consciously felt my wet cheeks, my clouded eyes full of teardrops welling up in it, mourning the end of a book, the fate of a character I learned to love, to root for, and there it was. And the truth in it hit me like a sledgehammer.

“In the end? Nothing ends. Nothing ever ends.”

And though I had read these exact words before, written by a different author in a different place and time, they came crushing down on me again with an impact I didn't expect I could withstand, and I felt baffled and helpless and blessed at once, and for a while the book remained in my hands, a finger in between those last pages, for putting it down meant letting it go, along with every thought and feeling I embraced while indulging in this journey of the soul that shook me wide awake right then when I least expected it to. When I needed it the most. Stirring me up like an abandoned Sleeping Beauty, confused, irritated, scared. Did I consciously chose this one, being only one among so many that have been forever in that pile-of-shame of unread books, for some uncanny voice even I couldn't hear must have whispered in my ear to settle on this specific one right now? Do I believe in the divine? Fate?

Fact is, though my life's not at all like Oscar's...

… it's exactly like it.

We're all Oscar Wao.

Driven by our hopes and ambitions to lead the life we hope for, to be truly happy, whatever that means to you, to me - to love ...to be loved back. Yearning for intimacy, crushed if we're rejected, heartbroken, miserable, hitting rock bottom, to the point we get our shit together and keep on going. Stoic at first, baby steps, but after a while anger and despair turn into numbness, into acceptance, into calmness, contentment. The five stages of grief. And if there can possibly be anything ironic about them at all, it may be the fact that the same process that helps you accept death, the possible end of everything, equally guides you back to life.

Nothing ever ends.

So, my life is at a turning point, though by far not as dramatic as the last sentences may have suggested, but just like Oscar, I feel lost. Torn. True pisces fashion.

And yet here I am, with more possibilities than I could have ever hoped for, free to do whatever I want, to start it all new, and like it always is, when there are more flavors of ice-cream than you could possibly eat in your entire lifetime (or not - damn you, lactose intolerance), when one choice, one option looks or sounds better or more promising than the other, when the variety of possible futures clouds your mind, you can't focus on what you need or want the most, as choosing one would mean abandoning all the others, and in the end you're lost in yourself, lost in your hopes and dreams and unless there's someone around to give you that well deserved kick in the butt, to live life at its fullest by feeling the joy of succeeding and the pain of failing on everything you do - unless that happens you'll just stay in your well-established comfort zone, too distracted, too lazy, too comfortable to tear it all down, start again from scratch, build it all up before eventually trashing it down again.
'But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.'

Since fate (and by writing this it seems I may consider acknowledging its existence) has decided to give a nod, the slightest, but nonetheless, it's about time to decide, to push away the fear of eventually losing what you got by aiming for what you hope for.
To give a flying fuck about reason for a change.
No one gets remembered for the things they didn't do.

And in the end, Oscar did, too.

This isn't Kansas anymore!

Heimat.

There is no English equivalent for it. I didn't know that, tried to look it up and as expected ended up with 'home', which doesn't do it justice. Home is... true, where your heart is - and this is as much of a platitude as I can come up with - a place to come back to, a place to feel safe at, to belong to... but still. Heimat is more.

Looking up one word or another while typing these entries I stumbled upon quite a number of words I couldn't find a decent or fitting equivalent for. 'Das Land der Dichter und Denker'... maybe it is. Probably not. Goethe. Schiller. Büchner. Masterminds of the written word, linguistic poets whose works are for most of my generation a merely tolerable pain during highschool, telling stories that, in their blinded minds, can't compete with the lustrous bestselling yet pointless adventures of Ana Steel or Bella Swan – pieces I wouldn't consider touching unless hell freezes over. Go and read Woyzeck, for God's sake.

Anyway. Equivalents... or rather not. But then the Inuit have about forty different words for snow; call it even.

As I said, home doesn't do it justice. Home, a home, your home, a place that felt like home, it can all be abandoned. Replaced. Not forgotten, but closed up.

A lifeless replica of the brimming spaces that meant the world, preserved in formaldehyde, like most memories revisited only once you get the blues, or pleasantly drunk for that matter, simply another item among those already stored on the countless shelves neatly arranged inside your mind.

LA used to be my home away from home, some sort of second home to come back to a couple of times a year.

To keep a long story short, it isn't anymore.

At all.

Getting back didn't feel right. Or satisfying. In the end it's hard to actually admit it to myself, to speak it out loud, type it down, believe it - but I felt empty walking the streets I used to roam too often. An empty shell, an imprint of what used to be, faded, worn out. Crumbling into dust at touch. Santa Monica. Venice Beach. Beautiful, yet drained of all the colors, a black and white reminder that the world keeps turning, come what may.

It was never about LA, although the steady sunshine had always been a welcome relief from the seemingly neverending rain over here. Home being rather about the people you love, yearn to see, speak to, laugh with, while being 5689 miles away on this side of the pond, which once felt like an insurmountable obstacle but in the end turned out to be nothing more than a mere twelve-hour journey trapped in-between poor in-flight entertainment, snoring neighbors, and 12,000m of thin air below your feet.

Without them, well, what's left is a city that to me seems to unceasingly thrive on the energy of the young and restless chasing their dreams. Tinseltown. Loriot, probably the last honest, witty, great thinker we had, was right: 'Früher war mehr Lametta'.

With Steve being dead, C. and A. up in Sacramento and everyone else scattered all over the States there isn't much there to generate the feeling of home I once felt and longed for. It seems right to let it go, to board it up.

But in the end it was the only home I ever had away from home.

Home, the one place that is so much more than just home: Heimat.

Nothing screams Heimat as much as driving down the freeway at night, being greeted by 'Die Drei warmen Brüder', colorfully illuminated, a red and purple light house in the dark ocean of rooftops that sweeps over the city, making one of its ugliest icons the most beautiful one, at least for those who understand that real beauty can only be found in the most trivial things. It's always about the small things; they ground you, remind you where you come from - your roots. Awe.

It's different. It could never be boarded up, forgotten, abandoned. Impossible, it's who I am. The only place to truly and fully feel perfectly comfortable at, welcomed, accepted, being aware of every house, every street in your hood, every damn graffiti. Knowing your way around, down to the smallest aspect of what life means in this specific part of the country. Cherishing the House of Welf's / Guelph's incredible influence on this city, the fact that they provided three kings to the English throne, a personal union that started in 1714 and ended with Queen Victoria in 1837. A city rebuild after the disastrous demolition it experienced during WWII, my grandmother among the countless Trümmerfrauen that helped rebuild what was left. The dialect, the traditions – Pindopp, Krökeln, Lüttje Lage, to name a few. The people, after all.

'We are blood cells alive in the bloodstream of the beating heart of the country' – I couldn't describe it more accurately. It's hard enough to express these abstract thoughts and feelings with words anyway, to bundle them up and give them a meaning that goes beyond sounding like a love drunken fool wearing rose-colored glasses – and it gets worse if you try it in a language that's not your native one. This is my feeble attempt.

But then, Heimat is ambivalent, like an old couple. To some extent you can't stand being around each other on a daily basis, the routine dragging you down, making you wish for something new and exciting to see, experience, feel, but in the end you can't live without one another either. The perfect irony, making sense in a way hardly anything does. Except for Heimat.

ps. aka Author's note: writing about the unique relationships of long married couples brings me back to Loriot and his superb observation skills of human interaction he showed in each of his sketches, animated or not. If you don't know about his work, make sure to check it out.

He is greatly missed.

Fault line

I was raised on the whole 'If you got nothing nice to say, then better say nothing at all' concept, and I am grateful for that. But as much as I try to live by it on a daily basis, sometimes there's simply too much annoyance going on to actually stick to it.

My fault, I know.

And what really works me up are dumb people. Dumb as in acting ignorant, insensitive, rude.

See, my mom has Parkinsons disease. She's been sick for more than 10 years, so this is not new to me, but as it is a progressive disease things naturally don't get better, but only worse.

So yeah, big news, Parkinsons may not be deadly but it's not a walk in the park either. For none of us. She's slow and fragile, has developed a hunch and her sense of balance is majorly screwed up once the meds are wearing off before the next dose is due. Logically, her self-confidence is not the best.

It therefore hurts twice as much if people keep staring at her like she's some kind of freak.

If they keep pushing her away when she can't get out of their way fast enough. Because apparently it doesn't matter if you bump into an old lady who's simply happy to be exceptionally feeling well enough to enjoy a rare trip downtown with her only daughter.

If they make dumb comments once she loses balance again and nearly trips in the middle of a packed department store. No, she's also not drunk or in withdrawal, thanks for considering that. And yes, poor me is her daughter who actually cares and gives a damn whether you treat her nicely or not. Too many don't.

I keep telling her to directly ask people on the bus to offer her a seat, as most simply don't. And I'm not talking about young folks exclusively, but about grown men, suit and tie, too, who should know better. 

Didn't their parents teach them manners? 

Were they raised by a pack of wolves? 

When did being polite became so out of fashion? 

Being ignorant the new mantra to aim for?

Another example?

One of my best friends is diabetic. Type I. Got it when he was 12. Probably genetically inherited, it runs in the family. Which means that all the insulin producing beta cells in his pancreas are literally dead. Not producing any insulin at all. It's different from Type II diabetes and there's no way you can compensate your carbohydrate exchange (or bread units, or sugar input, whatever you prefer) without insulin injections at all.

In case you didn't know.

Which literally boils down to the fact that he has to get his injections a couple of times a day. No matter where we are. One afternoon we were standing right in front of a clothing store downtown when my friend realized his blood sugar was way too high to not do something about it. So he got out a syringe, drew up the insulin and started injecting himself. No biggie. Until the security guy in front of the store suddenly started shouting at us. I won't go into detail but his tirade contained a lot of beep-worthy words as well as fragments like 'junkie', 'police' and 'restraining order'. My friend calmly finished his shot, put away the syringe and all he said was 'Well, I'm diabetic, would you mind giving your general manager a call? I'd like to have a word with him.' Silence. …. Apologies.

Didn't we all watch Trainspotting at some point in our lives? Or any other movie that explicitly depicted someone shooting up heroin? Drugs are injected into veins, insulin is injected into intramuscular fat aka the belly and likewise.

It's not exactly rocket science.

I don't blame those who don't know. I didn't wish to become an expert on Parkinsons or diabetes in the first place. But instead of simply staring or making stupid comments or being rude with no obvious reason while assuming things one shouldn't, people could simply talk to those affected and ask what's going on. Doesn't hurt.

Thing is, they don't. Nobody ever does.

And while biting my tongue nine out of ten times to swallow down that snarky comment, I can't hold it back all the time and in the end it's me who feels bad for saying things to others I probably shouldn't. Even if I got every right to do so. Cause that's the way I was raised and taught to treat others. With respect

I wish there would be some kind of moral lesson to this, but to be honest, I fear there isn't. It's just me getting it all off my chest. Good days, bad days. And a good rant is just what I needed.

Nocturnal Dreams

I shouldn't be writing.

No. I should be writing. Just not in here.

I should be writing my thesis instead of blogging. My thesis that is due in... let's say too soon.

But insomnia took hold of me last night, keeping me awake until the birds started chirping again, which is, for the love of God, way too early these days.
04.13 in the morning to be precise.

A thousand thoughts crossed my mind, one synapse firing off after the other, giving me a hard time to focus on anything besides desperately trying to fall asleep. To no avail.

1am.
Reading seems like a great idea. I recently decided to finally reread Faust Part I, my favourite play throughout highschool, but even Goethe's 200 year old verses didn't work wonders tonight. Neither did the dates and statistical numbers about Alexander the Great I absorbed for a good 30 minutes from the history mag lying next to my bed. Bummer.

2am.
The thunderstorm outside has decided to go full throttle, lightning lighting up my bedroom every other second, making me feel like being trapped in the beam of a strobe light in a dingy 90s teckkno/house club. Luckily without the matching soundtrack. Goethe's last words are said to have been 'More light'. 'Less light' should have been my last words or thoughts for tonight before falling asleep. Well, didn't happen.

3am.
It's about 27° C in here and I can't open the window to let in the fresh breeze the thunderstorm brought along. Can't because of the big fat black spider that besieges my window frame the second the sun sets. My love for animals stops at the point spiders decide it's gonna be a great idea to be my new roommates. And tonight's not the time to chase them with the handy glass-and-postcard-spider-trap just to get them out of my bedroom again, so the window stays closed.

Music then. Food for the soul. Substitute for love.

It's been a Thees Uhlmann kind of day, so I put 'Römer am Ende Roms' on. Turns out listening to songs you can actually sing along to doesn't help falling asleep either.
I should have known. 

Suddenly 'One night in Bangkok' pops up. In my case it was ten nights in Bangkok. The recent events in Thailand bring back memories from 2010 when I unexpectedly ended up in the middle of a Redshirt demonstration next to Chatuchak weekend market. Banners with characters you can't decipher surrounding you, demanding political changes you only barely have an idea about. The general culture shock, although I don't like calling it a shock, it's rather a different, new and refreshing change of perspectives, too overwhelming to deal with such delicate political issues in detail while being on vacation, even if you could somehow feel that something significant was going to happen soon. I got out just in time. Subvarnabhumi Airport was being partially occupied by Redshirts a few days after I got back home. There are pictures of me at the plaza in front of Central World, which burned down only a few weeks later as a result of the uprising protests. Moments in time.

Wanderlust strikes again. Once this dreadful thesis is handed in, all I wanna do is hop on a plane and get out of here. Free my mind. Mid-August maybe, only a week or two, just inbetween all those wedding ceremonies.
Yeah, wishful thinking.
I need to get my mind off of traveling, desired destinations, airfares, and finally find some sleep.

4am.
Birds.

I must have fallen asleep at some point.

7am.
The alarm goes off and for some weird reason I feel wide awake, resfreshed. Still being driven by too many things to ponder about, but at least I can somehow phrase them now. Put words into action, or something like that. Whatever.
About time to get some work done.
50 something pages to go.
I really gotta stop writing now.

To keep on writing.

Primum et Extremum

I didn't take Latin in school. It was either Latin or French, so I went for the living and opted for French. Maybe not the smartest choice I ever made but in the end it's just one of many insignificant ones that did or didn't shape my personal path of life, which seems to revolve around these take it or leave it decisions continuously.

To be, or not to be.

Take your chance or leave it.

It's all about binary pairs. Binary beings in a binary world. Two eyes, ears, arms, legs, lungs, kidneys....duality everywhere. Male or female. Old or young. Good or evil. Yes or no. Black or white. Which makes sense in a way that it structures the complexity surrounding us, guiding us towards decisions, categorizing, labeling, defining. Constructing meaning in a way we couldn't without these pairs, without words for them, without opposites. But the choices we make, the decisions we take aren't about black or white, they're about the shades of grey in between. The personal experiences of everything we voluntarily or involuntarily encounter.

Especially the firsts and lasts. Our own personal firsts and lasts, although we as humans share so many of them, we might think they should be similar.

The first firsts are deleted from our memory, only being retold to us by those who have surrounded us our entire lives, witnessing these first firsts, maybe the most important firsts we've ever had. First breath of air, first smile, first words, first steps. When firsts came naturally. Growing up they outweigh the lasts, new experiences being added to our mental curriculum vitae on a daily basis, linked to memories, feelings and songs only we can make sense of. Like remembering the first time my Dad took me to a soccer game when I was four, the stadium a green and white cauldron of chanting and shouting fans, cheering on the one team I am still a fan of. Dad simply trying to make sure I don't turn out to be one of these übergirly princess daughters that solely play with dolls and refuse to wear anything but pink. Check. Bless him for that.

And then, at a certain point or place in life the firsts and lasts began to merge, a maelstrom of excitement and timidity, one door being closed while another one opens up. As they always do. To change you, to open up possibilities, to shape your personality, your point of view, your self- perception. Like the night before the first sleepover at a friends house being the last night you couldn't let go of your stuffed toy tiger. And suddenly you can. Easily. Or the first time doing a somersault from the 5-Meter tower being the last time to attend training after six years of high diving. Experiencing height phobia for the first time, accepting it, dealing with it, taking consequences. Crowdsurfing for the first (and last) time in '97 at the first (and luckily not last) punkrock show I ever went to. They all go hand in hand.

The first sex, being not nearly as exciting or sensual or overwhelming as your friends or the media constantly promised it to be, at your own regret. Only much later the first time it actually turned out to be as indescribably, thrilling and satisfactory as you always hoped it would be.

The firsts we couldn't wait to happen, to check them off our inner To-Do List, to cross them out and be happy and proud about it. Like the tattoo I kept begging my parents for for months when I was seventeen. The tattoo they said I could have when I am of legal age at 18, being completely responsible myself for what I do. What can I say, I am still a tattoo virgin. One of the firsts I failed on or rather chose not to experience. A first spark of wisdom?

And after a while the firsts and lasts begin to balance each other. More and more lasts start to invade our daily repetitive rhythms of simply adding 'once more' to the things we previously did for the first time. The last day of school, a last one you couldn't wait for and suddenly it's there and you wish it wouldn't be as it is as definite as anything can be, marking the end of your childhood, a sacred, carefree time.

Not all, but many firsts and lasts start to have a different meaning now, a more profound one. They don't come naturally anymore. Lasts we didn't expect, lasts we didn't hope for. Lasts we never wanted to have. The unexpected lasts, the ones you didn't know would turn out to be lasts, are the worst. Like the last time I hugged Steve goodbye, not knowing he'd be gone a year later. Now wishing I would have cherished that moment more than I did back then, instead of just being happy to see him. To suck in every second of it, making sure not to forget a single smile or gesture.

Or that last kiss before it all fell apart, before breaking up that special relationship that wasn't supposed or planned to end. Finally, the firsts we never wanted to happen. Hospitals. Funerals.

The planned firsts and lasts are rare these days. The unexpected ones tend to pop up more often and although some of them will be unpleasant and scary and devastating, I am in general looking forward to the things to come in the distant future. Hopefully. The firsts and maybe even lasts you hope for.

Important firsts, like the first firsts we ever had.

Each at its time.

Es brennt

Monday morning. 7am. Being spoiled by the first sunrays of a day that will fully live up to its expectations, as the daring swallows zigzagging above your head suggest, climbing up into the deep blue like a jet fighter before plunging down, again and again. Once. Twice. Teasingly circling each other like lovers, knowing exactly what they want, intrigued, longing, yet not daring to make the decisive move. A coffee-to-go in your hand, shades already on, another great day ahead.

Until...

Until the displayed newspapers or the radio or the tv force you to zoom out of that perfect moment, painfully depicting Sundays events. European elections. A black date, or rather a brown one, considering the alarming results, the ease with which so many right-wing populist parties strongly increased their impact on European politics.

And I feel ashamed.

Ashamed to be European these days.

I don't wanna turn this into a huge political statement, as I neither have the time or nerve for a digital shitstorm and haters gonna hate anyway, but I got some strong opinions about certain basic issues like gay marriage (yes), death penalty (no), gun control (yes, please) OR the fact that fascism, racism and any kind of right-wing populism has to be prevented no matter what. No tolerance. Ever. Voting for right-wing populist/radical parties is never gonna be a legitimite way of protest, it's just plain and simple stupidity. Denmark, France, Great Britain, Italy... why, oh why? It saddens me, shocks me, leaves me speechless, makes me wanna scream and just slam my fist into a wall.

Of course am I prejudiced. There is probably no other coutry on this planet that is as cautious about racism and fighting right-wing movements as much as Germany is these days. The cultural heritage we carry constantly reminds us of the monstrous things that happened 70 years ago. The ease with which Hitler and the NSDAP managed to take over control, to establish a dictatorship under the blinded eyes of the representatives of the Weimar Republic, gleefully nodding their heads, like lambs that silently let themselves be led to the slaughter. The terrible, unspeakable crimes and injustices that happened after that. You can't shake it off. It's everywhere. You're not patriotic. You're not proud to be German. Unless there's a World Cup or some other major sports event going on, but besides that? You must not be. And you aren't. And that's fine, I don't need to claim being German 24/7 or put up a flag in my window to cherish my culture, my identity, my heritage.

We got so many priviliges in the European Union. A strong currency. The freedom of movement treaty. A shared internal market. The European Erasmus programme. Achievements our ancestors fought for after WWII. A vision of a united continent that actually seemed within reach following the collapse of the Soviet Union. One can't, one must not abandon these ideals, and despite the recent struggles, despite Greece being bankrupt, despite the way too high unemployment rate among young academics in Spain and Portugal we must face these problems united, instead of turning towards anti-european right-wing populist parties trying to drive a wedge between us as nations. Being a blue-eyed caucasian girl I have had the priviledge so far to not become a victim of racism or xenophobia, no matter where I traveled, but that makes it only twice as much my responsibility to fight and condemn it. What does it take for those angry, confused, politically lethargic voters to exit that one-way-street towards national socialism?

I wish I knew.

Les Montres Molles

11396.

11396 days have I crawled, stumbled, walked on this earth. How many of them can I actually remember in detail? Honestly? Not enough. When you're a kid days can't pass by fast enough, especially if there are exciting events like christmas, or your birthday, or a trip to the amusement park ahead. Nowadays too many of them fly by in a blur, you following the same repetitive rhythm day by day, falling in line, being a responsible adult, whatever that may be.

Do you ever really feel all grown up? In each and every possible definition? I can't say I do.

Sure, I get my life straight, I pay my bills, I actually stick to my yearly dental check although I despise going to the dentist, I know how to get my taxes done and I try to go to sleep at a more or less reasonable hour if there's an important appointment in the morning... but still. Growing up always has this connotation of being 'old'. I don't feel 'old'.
Thirty is not 'old', as much as forty or fifty aren't either.

My dad turned seventy in October and he kinda admitted it's the first time he feels not too comfortable about his age anymore as seventy isn't exactly that young. But then seventy is the new fifty I guess. If someone can pull that off it's him.
Let's face it, age is nothing but a number that determines your Zodiac sign and your future retirement date. Or the level of embarressment you feel looking at old photographs and the terribles clothes and haircuts you once sported.

Growing up was supposed to mean having a husband, a small town house with a garden to grow some vegetables, a dog, a horse, a bunch of kids. What a cliché. A lovely cliché. Small town suburbia is home, my home. My childhood. Climbing trees, digging earth caves, wading barefoot in the river. An infinite horizon of cyan above your head, a welcome seduction to daydreaming for hours.
Did I expect to be married with kids at 30? Or married at all? Maybe. But as it turns out, you can't always get what you want. Instead I got what I needed. Traveling. Europe. Asia. The States. Finding myself, my inner peace.

Invitations to three wedding ceremonies are piling up on my desk; August is gonna be one busy hell of a month this year. It's like a virus, spreading out until your entire circle of friends is infected, passing it on to other friends, relatives, co-workers. Dresses. Invitations. Cakes. A big fuzz, an endless competition to throw the best, the biggest, the most merorable party. And while most of my friends get nuts about what to wear I simply am looking forward to some damn good parties with the people I love, awesome food and some booze.

Bowie and 'Doolittle' by the Pixies have been on endless repeat the last few days, music my twentysomething year old friends either haven't heard of or consider 'old'. If those tunes qualify me as being 'old' I can't help but happily embrace it. I'm fine.

11396.

11396 and counting.

Marmara on my mind

My Converse are slowly falling apart. That's what you get for buying fake ones on a crowded chaotic bazar in Eminönü in the shade of a dozen different minaret-towers. They are everywhere, and be sure none of them are the real deal. Only cell phone cases outnumber them by far, filling the walls of every second shop, a kaleidoscope of lifeless plastic shells, prestigious status symbols for a generation controlled by the constant urge to define themselves by brands and the latest technology.

Day after day, fighting the battle to be the coolest, the hippest, the one everyone else is looking up to. A neverending waste of time and energy, establishing exceptations they won't ever satisfactorily meet.

Istanbul is a peculiar place to be, a metropolis of contradictions, a melting pot of culture, religion, history, geography, art and politics, struggling to do justice to the numerous expectations and demands of its 14 million residents. Walk the streets at any given time of the day (or night, as I have noticed); you won't be alone. The Turks pratically live on the streets and in the thousand little cafes and shops all over town regardless of the time. It's wonderful. Unless you're in a misanthropic kind of mood, in which case Istanbul must be hell on earth.

They all speak English. Most of them German. Of course they do. Since each and every shopkeeper apparently has a brother, uncle or cousin in Germany that has lived for a while in your hometown, of all places. Of course they did. At least on the European side of Istanbul. Crossing the Galata bridge, lined day by day by hundreds of fishermen whose fishing rods are as much of a landmark in Istanbul as the Hagia Sophia itself, you slowly walk your way up the steep hill to get to the pier and jump on one of the countless ferries that take you from Europe to Asia. Isn't it bizarre? It sounds so damn cosmopolitan, crossing from one continent to the other by boat, maybe twice a day, for groceries or a simple shopping trip to the Istiklal, Istanbul's famous shopping Avenue. Twenty minutes. The Bosporus a shorttrack, a welcome cooling in the heat of the deep canyons that characterize Istanbul's asphalt jungle. An ever crowded bottleneck between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara, name sake of the word 'marble' or 'Marmor' in German. Bless the Romans, they surely knew where to get the good stuff.

And before the blink of an eye you're in Asia, or rather in a place you might have expected and hoped or prayed for after the usual madness on the European side. Turkey without the masses of international tourists, without oriental bazaars full of useless souvenirs or countless Nazar Boncuk, the Turkish Eye every single bloody tourist desperately pins on his backpack to show off that he has indeed been to Turkey. Or their limited understanding of what turkish culture and lifestyle actually means.

Unexpectedly I stumble upon a group of local folklore street musicians that get the catchiest rhythm I've heard in a long time out of their instruments; jingle rings, handdrums, a turkish bagpipe, everything you believe turkish folk music should be like. A group of students starts dancing, taking their hands as they do in Greece when dancing the Sirtaki, shouting, singing, smiling. A middle aged business man enters the scene, drops his jacket, joins the dancers, claps his hands to the beat and suddenly does a somersault. A fucking somersault! On the street. Let me get this straight, I am not kidding, cross my heart. I didn't know whether to keep staring in utter disbelief or rather start smiling like a madmen on account of the sheer absurdity I just witnessed. What a crazy beautiful city it is.

Suddenly you need your bare hands and feet to bargain with the shopkeepers, as none of them speaks neither German nor English. What a blessing. It took me about thirty minutes to explain the nice old man who sold handmade leather bean bags that I wanted just the seatcover without the filling, as I had to take it on the plane with me. Have you ever been trying to mimick a plane on a crowded turkish street full of suspicous looking housewifes and easily amused kids? You feel like a damn idiot. In a good way though. Describing the desired color turned out to be my statutory audit in mime bargaining. Proving that even speaking four languages is not the key to being a successful globetrotter.

Grün. Green. Vert. Verde.... Sigh.

The old man simply makes a call and orders some black tea for us. As they all do for you. I drank more tea during that one week in Istanbul than during the entire last year at home. Hell, I don't even like tea that much. It's Hospitality. The Turks must absorb it with their mother's milk. And you gladly aceept it, as every tiny glas of tea offers you another chance to get to know a local, to talk about life in Istanbul, about censorship in Turkey, about your whereabouts, about life in general. Two minds from different countries and cultural backgrounds happily exchanging words of kindness and wisdom, glad to end the day with an extended knowledge and the awareness that you both did benefit from it, no matter to what extent.

Tea is one thing you can't walk away from, cats are the other. Istanbul's hidden heroes are everywhere. It's hard not to bend down to pet each and every one of them, as they all persistenly circle around your legs, eager to receive some loving care. Nuzzling their head against your palm, purring, waiting to be scratched on that special spot right behind the ears. I could have taken them all home with me. The little tabby next to the Masumiyet Müzesi (Museum of Innocence) being my favourite one. The quarter has a typical Parisienne charme, flower boxes on every window, artistically crafted ironworks seperating the buildings and miniature backyards from one another. The well too known accordion melody everyone associates with France comes to my mind. So clear, so beautiful. Until I turn around the corner to find a turkish teenage boy with an accordion sitting on the steps of the museum, his eyes closed, lovingly playing exactly the one melody I had just been thinking about. Talking about coincedence... I doubt it.

It's the only museum worldwide that's based on a novel, which actually goes by the same name as the museum itself: Masumiyet Müzesi by Orhan Pamuk. As unimpressive as the crimson three story building may look from the outside, the second you enter the building and allow yourself to be absorbed by the unreal yet fascinating atmosphere, you can hardly get your eyes off the carefully arranged displays, artifacts of the tragic semi autobiographical love story Pamuk recounts in his novel. A wall of one thousand neatly pinned down lipstick-covered cigarette butts sorted by year. Letters, video installations, photographs, dioramas. A portray of a city. A melancholic portray of what Istanbul used to be like. A sad city, a poor city, an abandoned city that still carried a natural beauty. It's been a year and I still haven't gotten around to finally read the book. If it impresses me only half as much as the exhibition did I might be in for a real gem.

Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul. City of contrasts. In every possible way. Why do my reflections revolve around it so much lately? About nights being spend in Istanbul's countless rustic rooftop bars, smoking shishas while gazing at the full moon being reflected on the dark surface of the Bosporus. Nostalgia? The absent feeling of falling in love with something intriguing you can't fully understand at first but value now?

I don't know.

Outlines

So H.R. Giger passed away.

His works used to scare the hell outta me as a kid. I did watch Alien years before I should have. 'It', too. Huddled together under a blanket with my best friend, anxiously peeking through our fingers. His eleven year old brother supposed to babysit us.

Oh, the irony.

Giger's work never failed to fascinate me for the artically realistic details and their severe darkness. Inspiring in a pretty twisted way, encouraging creativity to take new paths. I've always had a passion for drawing, illustration, graphic design. The art of art in generel, perhaps. There must be tons of sketches on my parents attic.

'Kunst kommt von Können' they say. (Art comes from ability/skill)

AMEN.

As a kid my parents took me to Paris for a week. I fondly remember Montmartre, L'arc de Triomphe, Champs-Élysées et and Notre-Dame, which I immediately fell in love with after reading Victor Hugo's Hunchback. I wish I would have enjoyed the Louvre more. I was a only eleven back then, my inner compass needle pointed straight toward Euro Disneyland. These days I'd probably stay as long as possible at the Louvre, gaping in astonishment at the beauty and expressive power of the displayed paintings. When artists equaled real craftsmen. Requiering talent, a perfect eye for colors, proportion and space. Creating a unique masterpiece. Monet, Rubens, Dürer... to admire them not only for their paintings as an overall work of art, but also for their incredible talent and passionate output. I'd rather spend all day looking at classic 'old hat' art than desperately trying to decipher the artists intention eveyone is looking for in most abstract modern art. If there is any at all. I sometimes doubt it.

Maybe because it's easier to relate to. Beuys may have been a genius. Me the cynic. Applying a band aid on a bathtub is anything to me. But not art. Rather theatrical self-enactment. I prefer the past. Living history all around you, everywhere. It paved the way for our contemporary society, shaped who and what we are. Our social interactions, moral decisions, whether we are patriotic or not. How can anyone not be interested in history? May it be historical architecture, culture, literature or art, it doesn't matter. I don't get it. Never will. Even studying history was an option at some point. Before realizing becoming a teacher did not exactly fit my career or life plan.

English, History and Art, my favorite classes throughout highschool. I loved my art teacher Ms Helke, the most adorable teacher one could have, may she rest in peace. Pint-sized, always wearing too much blue eyeshadow and a broad grin on her face, encouraging even the most talent-free student to keep on working on their pieces, honouring rather the effort than the actual outcome. She once made us cite a famous piece of art, altering just a single aspect of the painting, yet changing it's entire meaning.

I still got mine.

A pencil/crayon version of the Mona Lisa. Face and hand replaced by the Episode 1 version of C3PO, all cables and lightbulbs. A sarcastic comment on technology and self-perception, seen through the blue eyes of a seventeen year old highschool girl.

Not nearly as dark, apocalyptic and disturbing as Giger's work.

But in the end, inspiration is all you need.

Fireflies

It's been raining for hours. A steady, mesmerizing rain, pounding against the windows, an enchanted song only understood by those who listen closely. Formations of puddles form on the streets and persistently soak up everything that dares to venture out on the streets.

You can hear the fireworks across town. Thunder alternates with another shower of rain pattering down, giving the spectacle a distinctive beat. You can't see it from my apartment but if you've witnessed it before you know exactly what you're missing out on. A thirty minute marathon of vibrant explosions coloring the sky like there's no tomorrow. Musically underscored by a perfect compilation of classical pieces of music. Bach. Beethoven. Tchaikowsky. Schubert. Haydn. A perfect performance. Fireworks as actors, presenting a play told by the music on a stage framed by baroque statues and artistically trimmed trees. Utterly surreal. Like being caught in a freaking fever dream of Louis XIV. What a spectacle it must be witnessed from a plane.

The Royal Gardens are just around the corner. The entire parking lot is filled with touring coaches from all over Europe.

Insane.

They queue to buy tickets, they queue to enter the gardens, they queue to enter the grotto, they queue to see the castle. Like cattle being driven by invisible sheepdogs, anxious to step out of line. Like bloody Brits each and every one of them follows the ongoing mantra of getting in line: queueing, queueing, queueing. Meanwhile clinging to their digital cameras, capturing every piece of unique architecture or floral arrangement displayed.

I get it. Somehow.

Sophia of Hannover must be spinning in her grave knowing that wagonloads of foreigners wearing Ed Hardy shirts and crocs are roaming the carefully arranged paths that frame the Great Garden. In fact, Crocs should be added to the No smoking, No food, No shirt no service sign. Period. People fly to the moon and discover the depths of the oceans but apparently don't have the skill to opt for decent, fashionable shoeware. Instead they hurry up to see the fountain, the corner pavilion, the grotto, maybe the Mountain Garden or the Orangery, impossible to see the forest for the trees.

Real beauty can be found outside the man-tall hedges though, just a stone's throw away. No aritifical arrangements, just ponds, trees, bushes and endless grassy plains that invite you to lay down, read a book, sunbath or simply set up your grill to have a BBQ in the park. We all do it as soon as we're blessed with some rare sunshine. Too long... Not only a green lung, but rather Hannover's green heart, a giant radiant hotspot to enjoy life's little pleasures.

The rain has finally stopped. My beer is empty. I head down to the kiosk to grab another one, it's midnight. But instead of ghosts only drunken first year students pass me by, euphorically realizing that the bar across the street has no official closing hour. Singing drunken lullabies not even the most sober one could decipher.

For a minute I just stand there, breathing, taking in the fresh scent of spring after the long hours of rain. What a lovely smell. Only this time of the year. And before I know it, the first drops of another rain shower start falling down on me. Too good to be true.

Off Shore

I didn't intend to get back in here on a daily basis. For my own sake and yours probably, too. BUT I somehow gotta get this off my chest and the usual social media outlets I usually frequent just don't seem appropriate to me right now.

It's 5 pm. And I am scared. Scared like hell. I can't help it, no matter what I do or say or think, how much I reason that I don't have to be.
It's actually that simple: in 14 hours I'll be having minor surgery. Nothing fancy, a simple laparoscopy/hysteroscopy under general anaesthesia. (Go and look it up yourself in case you're interested, I am too worn out to go into detail right now.) It's a standard routine surgery and I'll be just fine. I know it. Everyone keeps telling me I will. Hell, I am supposed to go home in the late afternoon unless something unpredictable comes along the way.
Nevertheless I can't shake off that damn fear of... being out of control? I can't even phrase it, an undefined uneasiness that covers me like a blanket, only without the comforting effect. Rather paralyzing.
I am not good with stuff like this. At all. I hate hospitals, but who doesn't?
Sometimes I wonder if my personal preference to spend some time on my own once in a while is the result of being an only child. As much as I love to spend time with friends, family, loved ones - I can't do that 24/7. Being a part-time-hermit comes in quite handy there. So my friend asked me if I'd prefer some company this afternoon, watching Firefly, talking.. whatever comes to our minds. And what do I do? I politely decline, saying I need some time on my own. To think. To brood. That's how I roll from time to time... gotta do things on my own.
Anyway.
I still am grateful.
So come on join me in the water, and we'll swim for home. Sometimes it's hard to remember: I couldn't do this on my own.

Cowboy Chords

Just putting on my riding chaps, feeling, touching the black leather that has turned as soft as baby skin after all those years of wear and tear, fills me with an incredible sense of satisfaction I have been missing for way too long. That too-well-known distinctive smell of leather, dust and horse hair finds its way to my olfactory nerves and triggers a firework of endorphins racing through my nerve system – and I am done. Spending hours, days, weeks at the ranch, day in day out, it all comes back to me in a second and I can hardly imagine I survived this long without it.

Saddling and snaffling(?) is as much of a routine as it used to be and before I know it I am already sitting in the saddle, feeling as comfortable and relaxed as one can be. I am in my own personal version of heaven and loving every damn second of it. Pure bliss. 'Das Glück dieser Erde liegt auf dem Rücken der Pferde' / 'The greatest happiness on earth is sitting in the saddle of a horse' – whoever originally voiced this wisdom surely knew what he was talking about.

The twins and me grab the reins and off we are, crossing the street and making our way into the fields. Getting lost in an ocean of sparkling yellow rape fields, surrounded by its bewitching scent and an uncountable number of bumblebees. The twins kindly offered me to ride their beautiful white Arabian gelding Ijadh and I can feel his gracefulness below me, the way he carefully arranges his legs, already letting me know he can't wait for the moment we let them run loose like there's no tomorrow.

The poor souls who have never experienced the beauty and serenity you feel the second you get on a horse and out into the open can hardly understand what I am talking about. It's the most perfect refuge and retreat there is. Just you and your horse. Nothing but nature all around you. Perfection. Minutes, yes hours to let your thoughts fly while the wind blows in your face and takes all your worries and pains away. At least for a while. Nothing but 900 pounds of muscle below you. And then you adapt to this movement and focus on the trivial beauty all around you and suddenly you are completely absorbed by it. (Oh, just screw your dirty thoughts right now...) It saved me more than once from losing it after a stressful day at school, after fighting with my parents or the usual and unavoidable drama we all experienced during puberty.

As usual we stop at the little tavern, get off our horses and have a beer, the horses grazing next to a group of children eager to pet each and every one of them. It's weird how fascinated yet apparently anxious they approach the horses, I bet some of them have never touched one before. It seems to me most kids are not that confident around animals and nature in generel anymore. My parents must have had one hell of a hard time with me as soon as I was able to walk, as I kept running towards every dog I could get my hands on to pet and hug it. I guess I didn't have a choice, I am a dog person after all.

Riding through the forest we decide to change into the trott to burn up some distance before the sun begins to set. After a while the muscles in my thighs painfully remind me that they actually still exist and aren't too fond of suddenly being overexerted. My bad. I know I will pay for that in a day or two. And I bet it's getting worse the older you get. Damn it. We pass the old waterworks and turn right to get back onto the open fields, my old racetrack. I'd give anything to fast gallop down the field only one more time on Bronco, my old horse. Fast enough for the wind to make your eyes water, feeling the adrenaline rush take control over your body.

Nora just screams 'Let's go!' and off we are. A black cloud of dusk surrounds us as we are dashing down the field, each of us eager to be the fastest, to win the race. Making the others eat dust. In the end Nora was bold enough to speed up to the max and win. It takes a few meters to get Ijadh from a fast gallop into a slow trot, sweating, breathing hard, eager to keep on running as his Arabian purebred blood forces him to. I just give him a pet on the neck and breathe audibly out while we're slowing getting back to the ranch. Mosquitos have replaced the bumblebees by now, it's getting dark. And I feel like I'm home in every possible way.

The welling of nostalgia, and feeling kind of strange,

Because despite the little changes, this place still feels the same.

Brawling David Bowie

The one thing I make sure to wear when getting on a plane is my St. Christopher necklace. No, neither superstitious nor a believer over here. Just taking certain rituals serious. Even if that damn thing gives me a slight rash every single time I put it on. I got it ten years ago at ZJ Boarding House in Santa Monica. It constantly reminds me of S. who used to comment on it all the time. I miss him. A lot. The big brother I never had. We his 'german family'. It's been more than five years since he passed away and I am still in utter disbelief somehow. LA is not the same without him, without the gang.

Glorious nights spend on the porch of his tiny bungalow, beer and cigarettes... just hanging out, getting drunk, talking the night away while counting the cars passing by Ocean Park library. Surf Liqour just across the street in case you ran out of booze. Well, usually Jaeger since, I gotta be honest here right now, too many american beers just taste like shit. Blame it on my spoiled sense of taste due to being raised in a country with a neverending variety of excellent beer.

It will never cease to amaze me how ridiculous buying beer (or any alcohol for that matter) in the US is. Brown paper bags? Really? Best idea ever, I get it. And no one will ever figure out what's inside those paper bags. Cause, you know, everyone who comes out of a liqour store carries one. And they look so completely unobtrusively, it's amazing. People will totally fall for that. Just like the black shopping bags you get at sex shops. Who would've thought? I get it, it's the law. The Law, capital L. Ridiculous? Naaaw. You musn't drink alcohol in public, but the second you get behind the railing of Rick's Tavern, which is right on the sidewalk of Main, you can enjoy one drink after the other? Law, go home, you're drunk! Maybe it's just my stubborn European point of view, but I think I can expect the freedom to have a beer wherever the hell I like in a land that calls itself the Land of the Free. On the other hand, who am I to judge?

I honestly can't remember how many of my international friends I got to meet for the first time on that old and battered couch in S. apartment. From the UK, from all over the States. Mingling on the sofa, while he was playing the grand piano that took up approximately one third of his living room, being his distracted self, only to laugh once in a while on a joke his little brother C. cracked. The dogs at our feet, even the slightly mad one. We went down to the beach around 2am, to 'chase the ocean' as C. put it. It was stupid and cold and beautiful all at the same time, lying in the sand, watching the stars, singing awful trash 80s songs for no good reason except to live up to our expectations of a perfect night. It surely was. April 27, 2004. All-night. Completely overtired. Hung over. No regrets. Nearly one year later we sorta relived that night celebrating S. 35^th birthday. For one more time we all hung out together in that tiny apartment of his. Last year I set foot on California soil for the first time since his death in 2009 and it felt so damn surreal to walk the streets, to spend Sunday morning on a blanket at Farmer's Market knowing that he wouldn't just walk around the corner sporting his out-of-bed-look (that actually was nothing more but a too-lazy-to-get-ready-out-of bed-look), being all flirty yet absolutely comfortable at the same time. 

So much has changed. 

I still got the Jaegermeister bottle we emptied during 'the infamous night'. And as much as that stupid little worn necklace it's a piece of no value for anyone but me. Something worth treasuring with my life.

The City of Dreaming Books

I found it in one of the packed boxes on my parents attic. Neatly arranged between my childhood copy of Der Struwwelpeter (or Shockheaded Peter as it should be known in English) and tons of old music cassettes. Ancient relicts my future children will probably never know how to work. A pencil and a music cassette, they'll never get the link. Kids today don't. Amusing yet sad at the same time. Maybe they just don't care, being too consumed on getting the newest technology the instant it is realeased, to worry about the practical cornerstones that made our recent technology possible after all.

Anyhow. My diary. Probably the ugliest one a kid could have. A dreary grey cardbox cover, nothing fancy at all. I loved it though. As long as I can remember I always wanted to write, to keep a diary of my life, to treasure the special moments and keep them forever. To have a physical proof of my adventures, hopes and dreams. To be able to open it up years later and relive the days again and again, chuckling about the apparently important problems one once had as a teenager. Knowing now you'd probably not change a thing, as those memories contributed to who you are today.
But it seems you just don't do that anymore. Not the way you should. Have you ever wondered about the last time you actually wrote something longer than your weekly grocery list by hand?
A gazillion emails and text messages are being sent all around the globe every hour, carelessly written down in a hurry, making sure to hit some imaginative deadlines. We all do it on a daily basis, and this blog proves that I too have surrendered to the convenience of rather typing my thoughts into a machine instead of lovingly and carefully drawing them on the maiden pages of a personal dairy. Why I cannot say. My appointments are written down in my iPad calender. My contacts are on my cell phone. I used to know about 30+ numbers by heart as a teenager. Do you still do?

The worst things are eBooks. Digital rats. Probably the most unacceptable invention of the 21st century. Okay, I am exaggerating right now... but still. You get my point. Call me old fashioned or a bore or whatever, i don't give a f***.  As convenient as it may be to carry a thousand books around on the electronic device of your choice, it just doesn't feel right to me. How can you cherish reading a novel / poem etc. without completely indulging into the written words, without feeling the paper on your skin, without actually turning pages? Haptic is an important part of my personal reading experience, one of the many reasons why I prefer novels printed in the UK and the US above the German edition. The vast majority of German publishing houses simply suck at creating beautiful, artistically designed covers.
Staring at your computer screen is what most of us do all day long anyway, so why bother to keep on reading books on a different screen in the evening?
Isn't there a unique, maginificent beauty in an old library full of books? Entire walls filled with words of wisdom that form the most incredible stories you could ever imagine. I think this circumstance alone justifies them an actual instead of a digital storage space.
And then there is the distinct familiar smell in old libraries. The knowledge that people long gone before we were even born or thought of, read those very books and enjoyed the same words we do today.
Books have been passed down from one generation to another, valuable memories, signed by those they belonged to. Proof of what used to be. Who will pass down their eBooks? Before the turn of this decade all your Kindle devices and iPads will be outdated and your books nothing more than one among a thousand other files on your computer. I am scared of the day bookshelves will contain nothing but an electronic device. As much as I don't wanna sound like a professional pessimist right now there has been a general decline in print products all over the world no one can deny. I just hope humanity gets not too consumed in technology to abandon the one medium that once revolutionized the world. Chapeau, Gutenberg!

There is an empty notebook in the drawer of my desk. Once bought to be filled with words. Written in ink. Gotta keep on searching for that old fountain pen of mine. Making sure to breathe some fresh life into the pages. Maybe not today, or tomorrow or the day after that. But in a not too distant future. To ensure I will be able to keep skipping through pages filled with memories in a few years, I can then chuckle at again.

Family Ties

Holidays. It is this time of the year. Spring. Families reuniting. Getting together. Sharing meals, laughter and memories. Taking pictures, once polaroids, today an uncountable number of digital memories that will once be looked at and then carefully stored onto your hard drive, a memory made up of an endless cascade of 0s and 1s, aligning perfectly to form the faces of you and your loved ones.

I am guilty myself. Guilty of confusing the simple joy to value the intimate and natural situations we once felt while taking our pictures with the urge to take a perfect photograph. To rather create a piece of photographic art than an everlasting memory. That old Polaroid camera I bought off Ebay in December is sitting on the shelf next to my desk, reminding me that as much as every monent you encounter is worth being remembered, the carefully chosen ones are the only ones you need and regularly come back to. A sparkling cascade of glimpses, your individual Best Of My Life.

We didn't take any pictures this year. Easter has never been a big deal in my family. But even if it would have been, things probably would not be that different these days. Family meetings are rare and never consist of more than five or six of us. Age differences have always been ubiquitous in our family. I have been thinking a lot about my grandma lately. It would have been her birthday on May 10. She would have turned 113. Right, 113 years, a number I can't relate to at all. How could I at the tender age of 31? Last week I read the latest issue of the history magazine I have subscribed to. It deals with the year 1914 and what an immense impact it had on how the entire century turned out to be. While staring at the incredible photographs of 1914 displayed in there I realized that my grandma was just an ordinary teenager back then. Probably hoping to fall in love for the first time, to finally outgrow infancy and turn into a young woman. Full of hopes, wishes and dreams that were crashed once WWI started. A hundred years ago, a century, an eternity for me. But after all just a glimpse in the eye of the universe.

My uncle was born in 1930. My mom followed in 1944, right during WWII. My cousin Christine was born in 1964, her brother in 1967. And then there's me, the only child. I did never mind being an only child or having parents that had me way later than in their 20s. Quite the contrary, as they always acted pretty laid back. Trusting me. Giving me the freedom to make my own choices, confident I would not disappoint them. I don't think I ever really did, despite being a pretty wild and sultry teenager back then. But as we all grow older and I see my friends attending one family get together after the other, I feel betrayed. Betrayed to miss out on having a really close relationship with my cousins. To miss out on having grandparents. Or to even consciously get to know them. I hardly had the chance.

There is this one single photograph of my grandma and me. Taken 30 years ago. It may have been around Easter. Before she got sick. One of the special pictures. The ones you keep close to your heart. The ones that should have been a polaroid picture, neatly tucked away in your wallet. Reminding you of times long gone by. Captured forever. Reminding you that this time next year, we won't all be here.